


Intro to Grief

by hedwwig



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedwwig/pseuds/hedwwig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice breaks for the first time, in the last sentence, and you feel something that might be your heart following suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intro to Grief

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anonymous prompt: "You should write a Trobed fic where Troy loses a loved one and Abed struggles with an intense desire to comfort him but doesn't even know how to begin." 
> 
> That's what I did.

From your room, you hear a sniff. Not a “my nose is running and I would like that to stop” sniff, nor a “what the hell is that stench is something growing in the fridge again” sniff, but a long, wet inhalation, followed by a short sob and a much longer sigh. Four seconds later, the door to the room opens, and Troy enters, strangely blank-faced. He doesn’t even look at you, just collapses on the bed beside you; face first, arms by his sides like a log.

You are… confused, to say the least. Obviously something’s wrong with Troy. Maybe something had upset him- it seems the most likely, but Upset Troy usually cries a lot more than this. You lean over your friend- looking closely at the rise and fall of his torso to confirm that he is, in fact, breathing. Hm. You sit back against the headboard, closing your comic, and are silent for a few minutes. As you open your mouth to ask him what’s wrong, you’re saved the trouble by a muffled voice, strangely low and calm given what it’s actually saying.

“My stepmom just called. My dad’s dead.”

…

Well, shit. That’s pretty much exactly what you were not expecting.

You’re completely and totally speechless. Your eyes widen slightly, but otherwise you don’t move. Troy rolls over, clasps his hands over his chest. His eyes are still closed, and for a morbid moment you think he looks like a younger version of what his dad will look like at the funeral. He’s breathing, though. You just checked, after all. Still, your chest and jaw tighten a bit, and you look away from his face, focusing instead on his left knee.

“Heart attack. She was in the shower. She found him in the hallway. Called an ambulance right away, obviously, but there was nothing they could do. Too late. He wasn’t even sick, man. He wasn’t- he wasn’t even sick.”

His voice breaks for the first time, in the last sentence, and you feel something that might be your heart following suit. You shift your gaze back to your best friend’s face, just in time to see the last remnants of a few silent tears disappearing beneath his sweater sleeve. You wince internally. Troy didn’t cry quietly. And he didn’t hide it. He still won’t meet your eyes.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and makes his way to the closet. Now you can’t see his face at all, and it occurs to you that you haven’t said a word. You feel bad about that. You want to say something. You want to help. You want Troy to not be broken like you know he is because he’s not acting like Troy, and you know his relationship with his dad wasn’t great, but it doesn’t matter, it’s his dad, so of course he’s not okay. You don’t know why he thinks he has to be. He begins throwing random articles of clothing over his shoulder- they land across your legs. He emerges from the closet with another armload of stuff that he dumps atop the growing pile, wearing the fakest and shakiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Damn, dude, all these costumes and not a single black suit. Where the hell is my black suit? I know I’ve got one, I wore it to the… last funeral… we had to go to…”

With that, holding his old letterman jacket with his right hand and a bathrobe with his left, he crumbles. He just… collapses. Sitting there in a heap on your bedroom floor, Troy Barnes begins to cry in a way you’ve never seen him cry before. His face barely changes, but his shoulders shake, and his hands are shaking too as he buries his head in them.

You have no idea what the hell you’re supposed to do. The sum total of your experience with comforting people has come from movies, and that’s not enough here. You can’t pull a character out of your ass and offer your sincerest condolences, because you’re better than that, and the man sobbing on the floor three feet away from you deserves better than that. But you still don’t know where to start. You’re not used to this, and you’re not good at it. You decide speaking would be a decent starting point, at least.

“I’m really sorry, Troy.”

Your voice is flat and sounds insincere, even to your ears. You’re disgusted with yourself right now, because it’s not your fault situations like this make you uncomfortable, of course it’s not, but Troy doesn’t need your bullshit right now. He needs someone who can wipe away his tears and hold him through his shaking, and tell him everything’s gonna be alright. Or something like that. If you’re honest with yourself you’re not even sure.

“I’m being stupid,” he says, and his voice is flat too, but in a much more depressing way. He turns his back to you and leans his head against the edge of the mattress. “Goddamn bigoted homophobic racist old bastard.”

You cock your head in acknowledgment, and- forgetting to be compassionate- answer automatically, with logic.

“Yeah he was. And yeah, you are being stupid. That’s okay though, ‘cause he was your dad. And you can’t help but love some people, and loving people means that sometimes you’re stupid about them. No one expects any different.”

There’s no response from the floor for a few seconds. You probably said the wrong thing. Shit. Now’s not the time to be yourself, Abed, now’s the time to be what Troy needs you to be. You sit stock still and don’t say another word, cursing yourself from within the confines of your own mind.

He doesn’t say a word, but you hear another sniff, and a hand emerges from his general direction, finding yours as it reaches behind him. You squeeze it, and don’t let go.

A minute passes like that, and he starts speaking again, quietly.

“Listen, man… I know he hated you and all… but I don’t think- I don’t think I can-“

You don’t make him say any more.

“Our suits are at the drycleaners. I’ll go with you.”

He somehow manages to climb back up onto the bed, crushing the clothes he had thrown there previously, without letting go of your hand. He curls up next to you and you feel your shoulder quickly dampening.

“Thanks.”

You extract your hand from his to wrap your arm around his shoulders, and that seems to be enough.

For now, you seem to be enough.

Maybe you’re not as bad at this as you thought.


End file.
